Threshold
As tresspassing the threshold
dividing me into past and present
a device rings in my pocket;
the voice that whispers tell me,
it implores me to forget about mud,
and get into the forest at once.
My only wish is letting go,
so I do my bet and exhale all sorrow.
I make my great entrance
I make it to the deeo woods,
and, allowing myself to step back
I smell the weed, thus I forget.
The past times seem to have gone,
so I utter "home sweet home"
matter-of-factly, though,
too much drama over nonsense
is up to the present my loyal escort.
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